Written in Red
by laurelinthetardis
Summary: It's been about four months since Sherlock's return, and John can sense that something is different about him... John finds Sherlock doing something shocking, and he has to tell John about what happened while he was gone for two and a half years. Bad stuff. This story mentions depression, torture, and self harm. A bit of Johnlock, though it is a bit more bromance than romance.


Summary: It's been about four months since Sherlock's return, and John can sense that something is different about him...

So basically, John finds Sherlock doing something shocking, and he has to tell John about what happened while he was gone for two and a half years. Bad stuff...

This story mentions depression, torture, and self harm

A bit of Johnlock, though it is a bit more of a bromance than a romance (sorry)...

It's a bit short...

My first fanfic ever so I would love to get some feedback!

The rush of rain and icy air slapped John in the face as he stepped from the cab. Cursing quietly, he pushed his way against the wind and made his way across the street. The black door to his flat blew open as soon as he turned the knob, hitting the wall with a loud bang. John shuffled inside, then took off his drenched coat. God, he hated the weather in London, always rainy and unpleasant. He wasn't sure if he even remembered what the sun looked like, considering how long it had been since it had peeked through the clouds. Well, at least indoors it wasn't as dreary. Not anymore.

It had been almost four months since Sherlock had returned. He had walked, head hung slightly, hands folded behind his back, into the cozy restaurant where John and Mary sat. John remembered with a slightly sad chuckle that he had spat all his wine out in shock, soaking his fiancee. He couldn't completely remember all that had been said, heard, felt, or seen that night, as it had all been so out of focus. He wasn't even sure that, if he could remember, he would be able to make sense of it all. Even with a clear head, (he had maybe had a glass or two more wine than he should have), he doubted that he would have been able to understand, let alone put into words, the emotions that had suddenly clutched him. Nothing, nothing, could compare to the shock of seeing someone you care about suddenly brought back to life.

John had still not completely recovered, though he was beginning to settle back into his new-old life. Sherlock had never told him much about why he had jumped, or where he had been these past few years. He had casually slipped his way into John's life, the same way he had when they had first met and they had prematurely agreed to share a flat. Therefore, when Sherlock refused to offer any information about his faked death and long disappearance, John was forced to just let it go as he had done before. Sure, he nagged him quite a bit about where he had been for two and a half years, but he knew it was pointless. This was Sherlock, after all. The man protected- no, more like trapped himself in such a thick metal case, it would be nearly impossible to strip it all down. John was just going to have to jump right back in and move along. Besides, it was better than no Sherlock at all.

But then there was Mary. John loved her more than any woman he had ever been with. He had pushed ahead of Sherlock over the years, always such a soldier, trudging on. The path had not been pleasant, and he had battled himself the most. _The things I never said…_ it echoed in his head, and throbbed and ached. Each time he had thought it, his heart seemed to beat twice as fast, as though it were making up for the pulse that no longer existed in his other half...his best friend. His _only _friend, (well, his only true one), since he had left Afghanistan.

But now, there was Mary.

John had met her while visiting one of his favorite Chinese restaurants, (the one he used to go to with Sherlock after a particularly rough day of crime solving). She had been sitting alone at a table for one, spinning a straw around in her coffee with a small, skinny finger. John had thought that it was odd for a person to drink coffee with a straw, but as she sipped the drink cautiously it seemed...right...for some reason. In that moment, to be honest, everything about her had just seemed...right. John had leaned casually in the doorway to the the restaurant, lingering for a moment to take her in. She had soft blond hair, a slightly pale face, greyish-green eyes and lips that were bright red with carefully applied lipstick. She wore a black dress with grey coat lined with white fur. She wasn't stunningly gorgeous, but she was certainly attractive. Clearing his throat nervously, John had picked up his heavy feet and dragged them over to her table. It was the first step in a life-changing relationship.

Things had been going so well, too, until Sherlock came along. Now he stood in John's path to Mary. Well, John realized that he had always been slightly in the way before he came back, but John had been able to walk through that ghost. Now that he was flesh and blood, it was much more difficult to push him aside. John craved the adventure, the excitement, the thrill of risking his life and the quick devotions that held everything together, (though sometimes those pieces did hang off, quite precariously). He knew he wanted to settle down at some point, and Mary suited that side of him perfectly, but a small bit of him didn't want to stop running. That small bit, that addiction, held him back and spread, as time went crawling on, throughout his body. Yes, it was an addiction. An addiction to the adrenaline, to justice, to the relief and pride of saving another life or clearing another name. And there was one more thing that he was addicted too, one more thing that he needed in his life though he would never admit it, not even to himself.

Sherlock Holmes.

John began to walk up the stairs, until he noticed something odd. It was silent, the air was not filled with the sound of Sherlock's violin. Ever since he had returned, Sherlock had been much quieter, but he played his violin constantly. He seemed to be trying to drown out the sounds of life, of John, and instead of using his words he used his instrument to speak. Every time John went out, he arrived home to the sound of Sherlock composing and music, always so slow and sad, worried John slightly, but whenever he asked Sherlock didn't ever do anything more meaningful than grunt. Well, if he didn't want to tell John, then fine. He could just go off and sulk on his own.

But today, it was quiet, strange. John had a bad feeling that gripped his stomach and tugged it down, though he didn't know what he was so worried about. "Sherlock?", he called up, pushing the concern from his voice.

"Humph…", replied Sherlock's deep voice from upstairs. John sighed with relief, then laughed quietly. Why had he been so worried? He felt like a sentimental idiot...which is exactly what Sherlock would have called him if he knew.

"Nothing. Nevermind", John said with less force than before. He reached the top of the stairs, then walked over to his armchair and slumped down in it. He rubbed his eyes, then glanced over at Sherlock. He couldn't believe what he saw.

Sherlock's eyes were red and glistening a little, half-open with fatigue. He was lying stiff on the couch with his hands up under his chin, and as John observed he could see his lip trembling. Sherlock...had been _crying. _Sherlock looked at John when he caught him staring, then huffed and turned over, clearly not wanting to reveal that he was experiencing an "emotion". John knew that he had entered dangerous territory by doing this, but he got up and walked over. "...You alright mate?", he asked tentatively. He really wasn't sure that getting involved was a good idea, but the doctor side of him was screaming that this man needed help.

"Fine.", Sherlock said after a short pause, all traces of sadness absent from his low, steady voice. He was curled up in a ball like a sulking child who had just been sent to his room. John knew he was lying, but Sherlock never cried..._ever. _He said it made him weak and vulnerable. So John knew that this had to be serious if the great emotionless sociopath was unable to stop his tears. John stepped a little bit closer to the couch where Sherlock lay, then looked down. His heart fell, sinking inside him and pushing his feet down into the floorboards.

Blood. Sherlock was bloody. He couldn't see the wound, but there was definitely blood. Not too much, but enough to leave smudges on the couch where he had shifted. "Sherlock! You're hurt!", he cried out, unable to suppress the urge to spring into action, to help, to heal. He grabbed Sherlock's arms and pulled him over. Sherlock, surprised, struggled under the doctor's tight grip. "John! Get off me, I'm fine!", he said loudly, attempting to shove his flatmate off. They fought like this for a few more seconds, until John moved his hand up to Sherlock's wrist. It was warm and damp. John looked down to see scarlet, a red stain forming on sherlock's white shirt. "What…?", John asked absentmindedly, trying to roll down the sleeve. Sherlock's hand slapped his fingers away, and he attempted to roll back over, but John was good. he had dealt with uncooperative patients before, and Sherlock wasn't much different. He pinned him back down and forcefully pulled back his sleeve.

Little red stripes met his eyes. They oozed slowly, bright beads dripping down Sherlock's white skin. Sherlock's eyes met John's and he saw something that he had never seen behind them. Defeat. Sherlock knew he had lost. "Jesus...What did you do?", John questioned, though he knew perfectly well what the answer was. Sherlock didn't speak, and it seemed to John that he even seemed a little surprised, like he couldn't believe that he had let his emotions show so _visibly. _And on a body that pale he had written it all out like red ink on paper.

"I…", Sherlock started, clearly frustrated by his inability to find words and form sentences. "I… I'm not entirely sure". It was true, John could tell, because he really didn't seem to know what was going on...what was happening to him. John put Sherlock's hand down, then rushed into the kitchen for some bandages and antiseptic. Before he could question Sherlock, he needed to heal him. He was a doctor, after all, and this was his patient. The difficult conversations could wait.

"Now, this is going to sting a little, but I need to you to hold still", John said, waving the bottle of antiseptic. To his surprise, Sherlock allowed him to help without a struggle. He was in pain, it was clear, but John couldn't tell if it was really from the slashes on his wrist. After he applied the antiseptic, he took out the roll of bandages and wrapped them around the cuts. Sherlock's eyes were were closed, and he grunted when John pulled the bandages a little too tight. "Sorry…", John said, his grip on Sherlock's arm loosening. When it was finished, John took a step back, then sat on the floor. The chair seemed too far away at the moment, though it was only halfway across the room. Sherlock opened his eyes when he still didn't hear footsteps, then looked down at John. He seemed confused, about so many things, and that wasn't normal. "Now...are you going to tell me what is going on?", John asked. He wasn't, however, going to accept no for an answer. "Trust me, it will help. Let out all of these..._emotions _right now and it will be easier for you to go back to being the way you were before: A heartless robot with no social skills. Although, if it makes you feel any better, your social skills aren't exactly sparkling right now either." John was trying to be funny… sort of. He knew Sherlock hated it when people got sentimental, and John did not want to put him in a fouler mood that he was already in. A sad grin passed over Sherlock's lips, but it only lasted a moment. John could tell Sherlock was trying...he was actually trying to tell John how he felt. Jeez, where was the Sherlock John knew?

"I don't need your sentiments, John_. _Now kindly get off my case and leave me alone. We don't need two annoying flatmates in here, now do we?", Sherlock finally said.

There he was.

"I am not being sentimental. Oddly enough, you are not at the top of my list of people I can have deep, meaningful conversations with, but you need to tell me why you cut yourself Sherlock!"

Sherlock cut himself. The words were colder and sharper to John than any knife.

Sherlock sighed. He shifted his feet nervously on the couch. This was not something he was comfortable with, it was obvious, but John sent him a glare that told him he would not leave until he got an answer. "Fine", said Sherlock, swiveling around to face John. "I still think about what happened when I was...away." They sat in silence for a moment. The wind outside was so loud it could be heard through the closed window.

"What happened? You never told me." God. What could have happened that was so traumatizing it drove Sherlock to cut? Sherlock closed his eyes and grumbled, not really interested in going into details. But John had had enough of this. "You better bloody tell me, or I am going to make this much more difficult...You wouldn't want anyone else to know about this, now would you?". It was cruel. Sherlock would never want anyone to know he was vulnerable, and John had just unearthed his weak spot. But John was serious. He really would tell Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, anyone that Sherlock knew. He was was really reaching the breaking point with Sherlock, and he needed to know what was happening to his consulting detective.

"Alright. Moriarty's men...I went after them. I hunted them down with Mycroft's help and

imprisoned them...killed some of them." Sherlock scowled. He hated asking his brother for help, and the memory of it seemed to give the words a foul taste as they left his mouth. "We had almost captured them all, but…"He stopped.

"What? What happened?"

Sherlock looked up at John's words. "The one that remained...was the one who tried to kill you. I never told you. I jumped because they were going to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't. Of course, I had a plan that worked out in the end, but there were...risks." He lowered his eyes again.

John's throat tightened. He knew...Sherlock really hadn't known if he would survive the fall. It was a blow that nearly knocked him over. "What...what were the chances that you…?", asked John with hesitation.

"About a seventy percent chance it wouldn't work."

Sherlock lowered his eyes again. This was difficult, for both of them. Sure, they had risked their lives for each other before, but this seemed...different.

"Well?", John asked, a bit out of place.

"Well what?", replied Sherlock sharply.

"The guy who tried to kill me...what did he do?"

"Oh", Sherlock said, remembering what they had been discussing before.

"Right. He came after me, in lieu of me going after him. He found me on the street one night. He followed me, but didn't reveal his identity or true intentions, he simply asked for money. I thought he was homeless, as he was dressed in old clothes that were two sizes too big. I was tired, and I was in a hurry, so I gave him nothing. When I turned to walk away, he grabbed me, choked me, and said…" Once again, Sherlock stopped in the middle of a sentence.

"What did he say, Sherlock?"

Sherlock kept staring at the floor. "He said...I've got your little doctor friend. Come with me, or he dies." Sherlock's voice was steady, but John could tell he was trying extremely hard to keep it that way. "I didn't believe him at first...but he showed me a picture, John. Of you. You were chained up and bleeding...I know now that it was obviously a fake but… at the time I thought you were really being tortured and-", He swallowed, "I let him take me." He finished.

A shocked silence. Sherlock's words ricocheted off the falls and Hit John hard. Did Sherlock really just say all that? "I...what did he do after that...to you?"

Sherlock just shook his head, mouthing "torture", but unable to say it as though it wasn't a strong enough word to explain what he had been through. "You don't get it though." He said after a few moments of quiet. "I said things...he _made _me say things about you that I could never believe. Beat out hatred and rage and sorrow, ripped me open and showed everything, then twisted around the words until they stung like venom and I… for a second I hated _you_. I truly hated you." He blinked, not able to believe that he had just spilled all that. "And...I hate remembering. I feel so _guilty _and I never have before. But I found ways to release it, to forget when it was too overwhelming". The words "self harm" split the cold air and hovered, unsaid.

"Oh...oh hell, Sherlock", John whispered, still trying to sort through the mass of words that were swirling through his head. It hurt them both so much. He stood up, his legs shaking. "Please...God, you don't have to feel guilty about that! Don't you ever feel like you did the wrong thing. Anyone would have done what you did, you are only human!" John was yelling at this point.

"Human", Sherlock repeated sadly. It was clear that he wished that word didn't apply to him. Being human was the hardest job in existence. But he couldn't pretend any longer.

"Yes", Sherlock agreed. He closed his eyes again and sank back into the couch, his eyebrows furrowed and his forehead sweating slightly.

John stared down at the tense, stressed, worried detective. Was he always like this? Did he just hide it? Did John just miss the signs?

But there was no doubt about it. Sherlock was definitely human.

John squeezed in at the opposite end of Sherlock's couch. Sherlock opened one eye as John brushed past his feet and, surprisingly, moved them aside. Sherlock almost never offered John a seat on the couch, but it was clear that today was not a normal day for the high-functioning sociopath. John moved in a little closer and sank into the soft couch himself. they were both exhausted, hurt, shocked, and, though they would never admit it, they needed each other. They just needed closeness for a little while.

"John?", Sherlock muttered.

"I'm here. I'm not in chains, Sherlock, and neither of us are being tortured", John said somewhat sarcastically.

"Obviously", Sherlock said, smirking.

They sat there with the wind howling and rain pounding outside their window. They were home, thought John.

Sherlock was sitting up now, eyes still closed. He moved slightly closer to John, their shoulders almost touching. "I'm glad I have a friend. I never thought I would be, but I am", Sherlock said suddenly. John looked up at him. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, and his face seemed to have relaxed. After a few minutes, Sherlock's head slowly drooped down. It landed on John's shoulder softly. John was a bit surprised, until he realized that Sherlock had fallen asleep. He chuckled to himself. Oddly enough, he wasn't embarrassed. They were friends, and they really did need each other in a way no one could understand. Not romantically, of course (although John still wasn't so sure about Sherlock), but still quite intimately. And no matter who John was with, no matter who came into his life, he knew that he would always need Sherlock. And Sherlock, though he would never say it directly, would always need him.

John was his doctor, after all.


End file.
